


Your Face to the Sun

by still_lycoris



Category: Tintin (Comics)
Genre: First Meetings, Gen, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Trauma, implied/referenced animal cruelty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 19:10:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20493818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/still_lycoris/pseuds/still_lycoris
Summary: When the boy first comes, you think he'll fade away into nothing. Until he finds the dog.





	Your Face to the Sun

When the boy arrives, he’s almost completely silent.

You aren’t surprised. They often are at the beginning and this one has had a worse time than most. Both parents dead, right in front of him in such a terrible accident ... hardly surprising that the boy isn’t in a good state. He’ll settle in, given time.

He doesn’t. He stays withdrawn from everyone. Doesn’t make friends, doesn’t talk except to murmur the very occasional answer to a question that really can’t be answered with a nod or a shake of the head. He is clearly intelligent but equally clearly uninterested in the world around him. You’ve seen that before too. Some of them recover. Some don’t. After a while, you think perhaps this one won’t. He’s a thin, waifish little creature and he’s getting thinner. There’s nothing that he’s connecting with, nothing that he is _interested_ in connecting with and that is something that cannot be forced. He’ll fade away like a shadow and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

Then one day, all the boys are taken out for a walk and when they return, there’s the dog.

“Dog” is an exaggeration. A scrap of bedraggled fur that can’t even open its eyes and can be cupped in the boy’s hands. Apparently, they were near the river when he saw the rapidly sinking sack and he hurled himself in after it, despite barely being able to swim. You’re told later that it’s only pure good fortune that he found a branch to cling to until somebody could rescue him, partly because he wouldn’t let go of the sack. Of course, all the animals inside were dead – apart from this one, the runt of the litter.

You tell him it’ll die. It’s too small, too helpless, too weak. He stares at you with more emotion in his eyes than you’ve ever seen there before, hugs it tightly to his chest. He clearly intends to try, no matter what he is told and so you let him. It’ll make no difference after all.

For days, the boy is barely seen. He is always to be found curled up with the puppy, coaxing water and milk down its throat, petting it, pressing it to his chest to warm it. His eyes burn with a steely determination that you didn’t imagine could have existed in the listless creature that was there before. He’ll drag that little creature into life if he can.

And it seems he can. The animal starts to snuffle at him. The little eyes open, peering hazily whenever the boy crouches down. It squeaks and yips as he whispers to it, calling it “Snowy”, though the fur looks more grey to you. The minute it can walk, it starts to follow the boy about, pressing close to his ankles. The boy doesn’t seem to mind at all. He reaches down to pet it every now and then, lifts it into his lap, cleans up any messes it leaves behind willingly.

Of course, it can’t _stay._ There can be no question of it _staying_. The boys aren’t allowed pets. All right, the boy has dragged it into life and that’s to be commended but of course, it has to go someone else now.

The boy’s eyes widen when you tell him and he clutches the puppy to his chest for a moment, making it squeak. His face pales almost to white but he doesn’t beg or plead. He gives the jerkiest nod and turns away, hunching over it. You feel a little guilty but exceptions cannot be made. You tell him that he should be proud of himself for the effort that he’s made. For his determination. But he doesn’t say anything.

The day comes to take it away. The boy’s face is ashen but he’s trying to smile as he presses the creature into the other man’s hands. The puppy makes a puzzled whining noise, wriggles to try and get back but the boy shakes his head slightly. He whispers for Snowy to be a good dog, then turns and rushes away, as though it is an intolerable parting. Perhaps it is. The puppy yips and struggles, trying to climb out of the man’s hands. The man walks away but you can hear a noise that’s remarkably like a howl. You find yourself feeling guilty, even though there’s nothing that could be done differently. You cannot make exceptions.

Three hours later, the boy arrives, the puppy clutched in his arms.

“He ... he came through the window. He must have run away. I know he can’t stay ... ”

Even as he says it, he’s cuddling the creature tightly. The puppy licks his face happily, making little affectionate noises as it does. Well, it’s to be expected. The boy has basically raised it. The fact that it managed to find its way back is impressive but it doesn’t change anything.

This time, when the puppy is taken out of the boy’s arms, it howls dismally, claws to get back. The boy swallows, hunches backwards. He looks so small. So lost. You tell yourself that they’ve all looked like that at some point. They look like that and they all recover.

The puppy is back the next day, bounding into the boy’s arms with a series of delighted yaps. The other boys laugh, seemingly rather impressed by the creature’s tenacity. The boy smiles, cuddling the puppy close, getting mud all over his clothes from the dirty paws. For a moment, his face glows and it’s as though the sun has come out.

The clouds cover it over again when you take the puppy away. And the puppy howls and howls and _howls_, loud enough to be heard all over the building. It doesn’t shut up either. It doesn’t eat. When the owner comes to collect it for this third time, the puppy tries to bite him, snarling and bristling. It doesn’t stop until the boy comes in and pets him, whispering that he needs to be good. Once again, he presses the puppy into the man’s hands and steps back, bowing his head as he does. The owner walks away and this time, the puppy is silent enough that you can hear the hitch in the boys breath as he struggles not to cry.

Two days later, you are walking in the grounds and see the boy. He is kneeling down and on his lap is a filthy and bedraggled puppy.

“Oh _Snowy_. Look at your paws. Did you run all the way? You can’t keep coming back to me. I wish you could, but you can’t. Oh, you’re going to be a good dog, aren’t you? A loyal dog. Stop licking me, you silly thing, _I_ don’t need cleaning. I’m going to give you a bath. You need one, don’t you?”

He stands up, puppy cuddled to his chest and walks away, cradling it with all the love that a parent might cradle a child. You watch him go, thinking about his whispered words. About the tender way he holds the little thing, the way it keeps coming back over and over to the boy.

When he comes to you, the puppy lying contentedly in his arms, you have made your decision. You tell him that it will be entirely his responsibility. Anything the puppy needs, he must pay for. It will sleep outside in a kennel, not in a bed. He must keep it safe and out of trouble. If the other boys are jealous and complain, he will have to deal with it himself. If it causes chaos, it _will_ be sent away. 

He stares at you as you speak, incredulous joy radiating from every part of him. The puppy begins to bark; little, happy barks of pleasure, as though it understands too. The boy thanks you with more happiness than you’ve ever seen, perhaps ever in your life, then runs off to sort out the making of a kennel, the puppy now running along close at his heels.

There is surprisingly little jealousy, perhaps because the boy becomes so likeable. He shines now; shines with enthusiasm and intelligence and friendliness. The people he once rejected, he now welcomes into his life. He helps others freely, is quite happy to let them play with the puppy. The puppy is happy to play back but always flies back to his master’s side at the end, wagging his tail as the boy pets it, now the snowy-white of its name. It causes some chaos – getting into the kitchen, digging things up – but the boy always sorts it out with ease.

Despite his intelligence, he clearly does not want to stay and learn more, although he could. It’s as though the dog has lit something inside him, a fire that burns too brightly for only one place. He wants to get out, see the world and light it up – though perhaps he doesn’t realise the last part. You can see it though. He will go through the world and he will change it and he will change the people in it with his fire.

He leaves on a bright, sunny day. He doesn’t take much with him – he says that he won’t need it. His dog trots at his heels, head held high, apparently as excited as he is. You watch them walk away together and you know whatever happens, they’ll be all right, as long as they’re together.


End file.
